


Cure for the Uncommon Cold

by DoubleApple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (it's extremely light bondage), Common Cold, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Book: Harry Potter, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleApple/pseuds/DoubleApple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Merlin’s beard, Draco.” Harry’s laughing, trying to straighten out his tangled pants. “If I’d known a cold would get you this worked up, I’d have opened the bedroom window every night in hopes of getting you sick.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cure for the Uncommon Cold

**Author's Note:**

> My first-ever HP fic! Just wanted to do something with Draco and Harry being sweet to each other.

“Aguabenddi,” Draco says, pointing his wand at the empty water glass on the table behind the couch where he’s lying.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
“Aguabeddti!” He tries again, more forcefully, and the glass transfigures with a pop into a drooping, under-watered houseplant.  
  
He glowers at it and blows his nose for the millionth time, then picks up his wand again just as Harry walks into the room carrying a huge mug of tea.  
  
“AGUA—” but he’s interrupted by his own cough. Harry sets the tea down and leans over to take Draco’s wand gently, turning it on the plant and changing it back to an empty glass, then refilling it with a cool stream of water. Six years together, a decade after the war, and they can both use that wand as if it were their own.  
  
Draco picks up the water and turns his glower on Harry over the top of the glass, and Merlin, he’s adorable when he’s looking less than fit, his eyes a bit glassy and his nose and cheeks red. His mouth slightly open. Mm.  
  
Harry leans over for a kiss but Draco turns away.  
  
“Don’t be daft,” he says. “Don’t snog me now—trust me, you don’t want to catch this. And besides, don’t you have to get back to the office?”  
  
Draco pushes Harry away with one arm, which just makes him want to snog Draco more. Instead, he shoves over his boyfriend’s legs, covered by the quilt he’d dragged over from their bed, and sits by him on the couch.  
  
“Yeah, in a minute,” Harry says. “But I thought you might want some of Molly’s tea. She started fussing over you when she heard you were sick and sent some into the ministry with Ron.” All three of them work there now, in varying spots in the giant bureaucracy.  
  
Draco softens a bit. He’s finally learned to appreciate Weasleys, particularly Molly. Narcissa loved him fiercely, but she’d never been the kind of mum who made her own magical tea blend for you. And he doesn’t want to think about his father just now, or really ever.  
  
“Can I get you anything before I go?” Harry brushes a bit of Draco’s hair off his forehead.  
  
Draco shakes his head, but then changes his mind. “Would you do that throat charm again?” he asks, his voice hoarse.  
  
“Of course.” Harry aims his wand at Draco’s neck and mutters “honeybalm,” and Draco can feel Harry’s warm golden magic ease the prickly scratch in his throat a bit, but not much. Amazing that wizards can defeat the Dark Lord and save the world as we know it, but they can’t manage to magic away the common cold.  
  
Harry aims “honeybalm” at Draco’s chest, and he gazes at Harry, watching him concentrate. His hair is shot through with gray, now, prematurely, his green eyes creased at their corners. It suits him, Draco thinks, but still. Not yet 30 and they’ve all seen enough pain and loss for two lifetimes over. He looks at Harry’s big, square hand on his wand and notices his nails, still—always—bitten down to the quick.  
  
Draco looks away, suddenly terribly sad, and Harry furrows his brows. Draco fakes a cough to cover it up.  
  
“You all right, love? Did that help at all?”  
  
“Yes, sorry, it did,” Draco says. “Thank you.” It comes out stiffly; he still has trouble saying thank you.  
  
“Okay, then, I really should get back. Do you need anything else?” Harry still wants to snog Draco, wants it badly enough that his prick is beginning to strain against his pants. Draco notes the flicker of desire, files it away for later.  
  
“I’ll ring you in a bit if I’m... well, if I’m feeling up to anything more.” Harry smiles at the innuendo and stands up, kissing the top of Draco’s head, and makes his way toward the Floo near their front door. Draco watches his arse move as he goes, before he tugs his robes back into place.  
  
Harry climbs into the Floo, takes a pinch of powder and announces, “Ministry of Magic,” and then he’s gone. But Draco’s melancholy lingers. He drinks Molly's tea, picks up a book and puts it down again, gets up and wanders around their flat, takes some cough syrup, eats some soup halfheartedly, comes back to the couch and flops back down.  
  
He makes himself wait as long as he can—exactly two hours and seven minutes—before he texts Harry to come back. He pops into the Floo almost immediately.  
  
“You okay, love?” he asks, concern in his voice. Even after all this time, it’s unusual for Draco to ask for help.  
  
“Yes, I feel a bit better, actually,” Draco says. “But I could use a hand with something else.” A slow smile starts across his face.  
  
Harry recognizes that look.  
  
“Oh really?” His own lips twitch up at the corners. “What’s that, now?”  
  
“A... different kind of healing,” he says, motioning Harry over to him and moving the quilt aside. Harry’s grin broadens and he again leans down to kiss Draco’s mouth, and again Draco evades him.  
  
“No! I really don’t want to get you sick, Harry.”  
  
“I don’t care, honestly, but fine, whatever. Did you have another idea, then?”  
  
Draco slides down until he's horizontal on the couch. He puts both his hands above his head, crossed at the wrists—their unspoken sign.  
  
Harry raises an eyebrow. “Really?”  
  
Draco nods, his eyes half-closed and beginning to smolder.  
  
Harry quickly casts the sticking charm, and Draco’s wrists are caught tight to the arm of the couch, above his head, immobilized. He flexes his hips up, testing the strength of the bond, and Harry is already half-hard just at the sight of him straining against it.  
  
Harry had only hoped for a quick midday mutual wank, maybe a light shag, just something to cheer Draco up and then head back to the office. But this looks like more, and he sees something deeper in his partner’s eyes, a touch of—what was it—anxiety? Fear? Vulnerability has always been kind of a _thing_ with Draco, something he’s repulsed by in himself and others, but also deeply drawn to. And it turns him on like nothing else.  
  
He meets Draco’s gaze and touches his bollocks through his silky pajamas. Draco shifts his hips and Harry squeezes. Draco's cock tightens with the pressure, just on the edge of pain. Harry feels it at the base of his palm and begins to stroke the base, pushing down.  
  
Draco’s eyelids flutter. “That’s about what I had in mind,” he whispers, his breath beginning to catch on the words.  
  
One hand still on Draco, Harry strips off his heavy robes and climbs fully on top, straddling Draco so their crotches are shoved together with Harry’s hand trapped between them. They both begin to rock their hips, Harry riding him gently, still in his jeans.  
  
He leans his head down to Draco again—nothing if not persistent—but Draco still won’t let them kiss, turning his head away so that Harry’s face is buried in his neck.  
  
“Oh, sod off,” Harry says, teasing but frustrated. He give Draco’s neck a little bite but he wants Draco’s lips on his, wants to feel his tongue pushing into his mouth. Draco’s lips are red and chapped around the edges; he’s usually so polished, with all his uneven edges smoothed out, that it makes Harry’s prick twitch to think about the extra new roughness.  
  
Even with his hands bound, Draco still likes control. “You hate rules you don’t make yourself,” he whispers.  
  
Harry bites harder in response, again on the side of Draco’s neck and then right on the gorgeous hollow of his throat where a few days’ worth of dark blond beard shows. He tongues the spot hard, the stubble sharp and coarse, lovely, perfect.  
  
Draco arches against him, rubbing against Harry.

“Uh-uh,” Harry pulls away from his throat, teasing. “My new rule is that you don’t get to do that until I get to snog you.”  
  
“You wanker,” Draco hisses, still canting his hips and meeting nothing but air.  
  
“You wish,” Harry replies. Years of this power play, this back-and-forth, and it never gets old.  
  
“Touche,” Draco says, and Harry sits up and leans back. He reaches down and undoes the button of his jeans and reaches inside, pulling out his prick. It’s red and going toward purple, heavy and substantial.  
  
Just seeing it still makes Draco burn.  
  
Harry strokes himself once, twice, more, his hand forming into a fist. He leans his head back, his own touch tight and satisfying. Draco tips his hips up, desperate to come into contact with Harry’s hand, his pants, anything to get some relief.  
  
And then he sneezes suddenly, convulsively, right on Harry’s chest. It breaks the intensity of the moment and Harry laughs.  
  
“Still worried about getting me sick, then? I told you, I don’t care—” and breaks off as Draco bucks his hips violently to throw Harry off balance. He falls downward, winding up with one hand on either side of Draco’s head and his face just inches away, and Draco twists up to kiss him square on the mouth. Their teeth clack together and Draco’s tongue slams into his. Draco’s mouth tastes delicious, different than usual, honey and tea and something sharply medicinal, mixed with pure desire.  
  
Harry moans low in his throat and, his mouth still locked on Draco’s, reaches his hand back between them. He shoves both of their pants aside and he can’t play patient anymore, he rubs their cocks fast and hard, then stretches the length of himself along Draco’s thigh, moving back and forth.  
  
“Fuck, yes, Potter, fuck,” Draco says, all the muscles in his body clenching.  
  
Yes, Harry thinks, yes. Draco still calls him “Potter” when he’s really turned on. And Harry wants to make this last just a minute more, if he himself can hang on that long.  
  
“Your cock, Malfoy,” he says, talking almost directly into Draco’s mouth. “I know your cock is ready, I know you want it...” but he trails off and moves away, shifting backward and taking his hand off of Draco. “But _I_ want you to wait.”  
  
Draco grits his teeth and actually cries out at the coolness, the sudden absence of Harry’s touch. “Goddamn you, Potter,” he growls, writhing, turning his head from side to side.  
  
Harry smirks, a shadow of Draco’s own old expression, as Harry puts his hand back on himself and wanks faster. Draco is watching and he’s just coming apart, panting, squirming, his eyes glued to Harry. Harry feels a drop of pre-come and pulls it down, rubs himself with it, the slipperiness making him move his hand even faster.  
  
Draco is muttering steadily now, he’s absolutely come undone, not even making sense, “please, _please_ , Potter, fuck, please, _fuck_.” And Harry knows that _Draco_ knows how much he loves to hear him beg.  
  
Abruptly, immediately, Harry drops back down on top of Draco and takes both of their impossibly rigid cocks in his hand, sliding them back and forth against each other, slicked by Harry’s own fluid, and they’re rocking, shaking, rubbing, and then they’re both coming, Harry bending his head down while Draco arches up to meet him, crying out, their come mixing together, their bodies slick, their clothes a mess.  
  
It’s long and hard, drawn out after all that build-up. And then Harry is lying fully on top of Draco with all his weight pressed down on him. Shudders still rise up through each of them, and they lie there, quiet, until Harry feels Draco’s chest bubble up with a laugh that turns into a coughing fit. Harry quickly undoes the sticking charm; Draco’s hands come down and he coughs into his elbow.  
  
Harry rolls off, still panting, and sits back in his old position on the edge of the couch. Draco recovers and clears his throat, still laughing.  
  
“Merlin’s beard, Draco.” Harry’s laughing too, trying to straighten out his tangled pants. “If I’d known a cold would get you this worked up, I’d have opened the bedroom window every night in hopes of getting you sick.”  
  
“Thanks a lot,” Draco says, picking up his wand to spell both of them clean. “I appreciate—”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Harry grabs his wand. “I’ll take care of that. I saw what you did to that glass of water earlier.”  
  
Draco grimaces, but it turns into a genuine smile. He meets Harry’s eyes.  
  
“Bloody hell, Potter,” he drawls. “You do know how to make someone feel better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay healthy, everyone... :)


End file.
